Honey, You Should See Me In A Crown
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: A Knight of Hell following orders from a glorified salesman? Not likely. Crowley is seriously rethinking his life choices, Dean is showing his inner child (and his inner demon), and not everybody is entirely upset with the regime change. (1st in the Alleluia Series)


Crowley's day was not going well. The King of Hell, now the _former_ King of Hell, gritted his teeth so hard they shifted in their sockets, sitting on a wobbly three-legged stool just to the left of the throne, _his_ throne; he'd had to sacrifice his good handkerchief to keep the blood off his suit trousers, which he'd just had dry-cleaned, _thank you very much_.

When they'd strolled down into the throne room, the newly crowned king, flexing his newfound power, had changed the royal seat so it now looked like it was made of thousands of swords all melted and bent together, rising out behind it like a bladed fan, steel edges gleaming. Crowley didn't know what the point of that was, but a few underlings had giggled when they saw it.

Dean was sitting in Crowley's former seat, one leg slung casually over the arm of the chair, the other stretched out in front of him. The First Blade rested across his lap, the millennia-old bone gleaming with new blood, fresh from the disobedient few that'd put up a struggle at the regime change (a Winchester on the throne of Hell, honestly!) before having their hearts carved out. His hands were occupied, holding a giant rainbow Slinky, rolling it back and forth between his hands so the colours blurred together. The survivors stood on the edges of the throne room, skirting around the pools of blood and gore that took up most of the main floor, trying not to show how scared shitless they really were whilst at the same time quietly fangirling at the sight of the one and only Dean Winchester fully converted to the Dark Side.

"Uhm...sir?" a sublevel demon stuttered out nervously. His meatsuit was a tall, gangly youth with floppy hair that had been slicked back into some semblance of order, though it didn't make him look any older.

"What?" Dean asked without looking away from the Slinky, which he'd now taken to holding in one hand, letting the length of it drop to the floor and spring back up to him like a yo-yo, seeing how close he could get it to the floor without touching the blood.

"We're, uhm, we're waiting for orders, sir. What do you want us to do? Whatever you want, we'll obey. Sir."

"Whatever I want, huh? Awesome. Well, how about this? You guys...go nuts. Rake in the souls any way you can think of. Don't worry about whatever dumbass rules _he_ made up," the plaid-clad squirrel jerked his chin in Crowley's direction. "Go wild, man. But nobody kills my brother. I'm gonna handle the little big man myself. The angel, too. You bring the tax accountant to me. His holy ass is grass, and I'm the lawnmower."

There was a ripple of shuffling and whispers, and Crowley noticed with a sharp stab of irritation that the traitorous buggers actually looked _intrigued_. "Really?" the underling asked, a note of excitement creeping into his voice.

"Sure. I spent my whole adult life flying by the seat of my pants, and look where I'm sitting now." He made a sweeping gesture around the throne room with his free arm. "Winging it can getcha places, no doubt about it."

As the underlings began making their way towards the door, Dean turned to look at Crowley for the first time since they'd entered hell and everything started going pear-shaped for the crossroads demon. "C'mon, dude, don't frown so much. You're gonna get wrinkles," he laughed. Just as quickly, his eyes flicked back to the underling that'd spoken first, one of the last ones out the door. "Hey, Gomer!"

The peasant froze in place, Adam's apple bobbing convulsively. "Y-yes, sir?"

"Bring me some pie."

"Yes, sir."

The door shut, and Dean resumed playing with his Slinky, pausing only to take the First Blade and wipe it off on his jeans, which were already streaked with blood like dark war paint. He snapped his fingers, and a mop and bucket full of soapy water appeared next to Crowley's stool, the handle nearly smacking him in the nose. "Don't just sit there, make yourself useful for something for a change," he said.

Biting the inside of his mouth so hard he tasted blood, Crowley seized the handle of the mop and stood up. Years of planning, scheming, plotting, backstabbing, and double-crossing...and here he was, mopping up blood in his own buggering kingdom whilst Squirrel was sitting on _his_ bloody throne. He had once claimed to be the only game piece on the board that didn't underestimate the Winchester brothers, but he'd obviously underestimated the squirrel's demonic side. He'd rather listen to another round of God-awful karaoke in some pisspot bar than deal with this kind of humiliation.

And then Dean began singing "Back in Black," and Crowley realised he really was in hell.


End file.
